


Match Point

by madsaialik



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: ((girls playing tennis is v important to me)), (no i'm asking for myself), Alternate Universe - Tennis, F/M, I digress - Freeform, Locker Room, Sexual Tension, Tennis, What's the opposite of a slow burn, like when u see a girl playing tennis and immediately fall in love, that's it really just professional tennis and sexual tension lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25751416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsaialik/pseuds/madsaialik
Summary: "It's your first Wimbledon Open?" he asks and clears his throat, gesturing to the racket Rey continues to spin in her hand. The complicated schedule and brackets are jumbled in his mind, but he knows Rey's first match is in two days. His is—he checks the Rolex on his wrist—in four hours."Yeah. I’m Rey." She ducks her head and scuffs her shoe over the rough surface of the court."I know."The corner of his mouth ticks as he suppresses a smile as if he couldn't already be aware of her.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 35
Kudos: 77





	Match Point

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY LEO SEASON BABES
> 
> I felt it again............... the pull to the sports aus,, shirtless athletes live rent-free in my mind

"How long have you been up?" Ben calls across the prim, freshly painted practice court. Rey Cissa, nineteen years old and in the ranking among the world's top tennis athletes, whips toward his voice in the predawn light. 

"I didn't sleep," she confesses with a sheepish smile. With the messy three-knot, Ben feels like he sees a truer version of her in a casual gear that the televised games where she’s polished, a sponsored look of a white skirt and matching top with a prominent, stylized swoosh over her breast. A strange tightness coils in his chest, the same sensation when he watches her matches. Sweat trails the valley of her spine, the hem of her leggings damp over the curve of her— 

"It's your first Wimbledon Open?" he asks and clears his throat, gesturing to the racket Rey continues to spin in her hand. The complicated schedule and brackets are jumbled in his mind, but he knows Rey's first match is in two days. His is—he checks the Rolex on his wrist—in four hours. 

"Yeah. I’m Rey." She ducks her head and scuffs her shoe over the rough surface of the court. 

"I know." 

The corner of his mouth ticks as he suppresses a smile as if he couldn't already be aware of her. 

She's new to the circuit, still learning the professional aspect of the sport, fresh-faced with shoulders rolling like a lioness learning to hunt. Rey regards him with open speculation as she watches him throw his empty bag—as if she's trying to glean the secrets of being the number one men's champion, or trying to find the truth to the rumors and headlines his name generates. 

"I came down to warm up, but a challenge would be nice," He says, rubbing the back of his neck as he clears his throat again. "Interested in a friendly match?"

Rey gives him a surprised look at the offer, one that makes him seriously concerned for the thin fabric of his shorts as he focuses on what her pretty mouth looks like parted and breathless. An enthusiastic nod and soft smile make his chest shudder with an uneven breath as she takes off for the opposite side, the net between them the best and worst thing that's ever happened to him. 

He bounces the ball behind the baseline once, twice as she shifts her footing in anticipation of the serve she intends to volley back to him with every ounce of strength in her defined shoulders. He knows the high trajectory his size gives the ball will challenge her shorter reach, but his real advantage is experience. That, and the fact that her playing style depends on power—sharp where finesse should be applied. Raw talent that needs to be honed before it leaves her strained from the exertion of having to keep up with her impressive stamina. 

He adjusts his stance, invigorated by the promise lining her conditioned muscles. A new sense of alacrity that he has refused to feel for so long awakens in him; it burns too bright, too quickly, and makes his hands tremble. 

"I'm not giving you first point, Solo," Rey calls out to him with a smirk and a challenging cock of her head, fine hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead. 

"By all means Miss Cissa, show me what you got," he quips back and tosses the ball in the air, the branding spinning as the racket whistles. 

It's another three euphoric hours of non-stop play before an official game, divided into four sets before their coaches find them. Holdo fixes Rey with an unsurprised, soft scowl that's more exasperated than genuinely disapproving. Luke crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows at his nephew.

A newly repaired relationship between relatives might be better fostered by a cautious approach, but caution is not the Skywalker way.

"What's that about?" Luke asks, gesturing between Ben and the other side of the court to where Rey talks in a stage whisper, arms moving animatedly. Holdo reaches out, rubbing the younger woman's bicep. Rey shies away from her coach’s maternal touch, her shoulder moving awkwardly. 

"She was going to beat me," Ben tells him. "I'm serious Luke. She watched my backhand swing, adjusted her grip, and gave it right back to me." 

"So are you in love with her?" Luke says gruffly with enough nonchalance to make Ben react, scrubbing at his jaw with a clear indifference as his nephew turns toward him. 

"No, that's not—"

"Really? You've watched all her matches since her debut at the Australian Open. We're staying at the same hotel, suspiciously at your recommendation—"

Ben cuts him off: "There's something about her, I'll admit. She's a hell of an athlete with still so much potential."

"I'm only here to fix your PR and because I love you Ben, but I don't think this is going to go the way you think. Be careful, kid."

Luke grumbles about the waste of energy as he escorts Ben to his court. Randomly assigned match between the number one player and a household name with a player settled in the low fifties ends with Ben’s victory in the fourth match. 

The next morning he attempts to hide his excitement but pretending to idly wait on the same court, anticipation curled low in his stomach wondering if she would show up too. There is no easing into the reaction his body has when seeing her in person, no acclimation to the heat on his skin and pink flush in his ears. 

"You need to pace yourself better," He blurts out, met with a defensive look as her smile drops. "I mean, you're more prone to injuries."

She narrows her eyes at him, trying to match up the patronizing words to the earnest tone as he shuffles forward. Tension locked in her muscles drives him to explain quickly, "Rey, you are an incredible player, I don't want to see you get hurt and your career end early." 

"Like you?" she says quickly, straight for the throat but without malice. A muscle in his jaw ticks, the dimple on his chin more defined for a moment. 

"Yes," he tells her honestly, keeping the edge out of his voice.

The circuit knew how his last coach ended in the hospital and how Ben tore his non-dominant shoulder, the scar tissue a hard lump holding the muscle together. The truth under drawn-out speculation before the season started; Rey looked at him like she knew, awareness condensed into her bright hazel eyes. She saw all of him and wasn't afraid. Something in her made him feel the courage to say the words that weighed on him, his left-hand flexing and curling at his side, shoulder as tight and strained as his voice. 

"This is my last season." 

Rey looks at him for the answers he's desperate to give her. There's a bare hungriness in her gaze, one he wants to sate. Her grip relaxes on her racket, color returning to her knuckles as she spins it twice before pointing it at him.

"I want to win. You're going to tell me how,” she says.

The brackets closed with each victory, Ben arrives in a room of reporters on Manic Monday. The top thirty-two athletes will be reduced by half, the most compact day of Wimbledon. Anxiety bubbles in his stomach for the first time in years, his hair sticking to his neck. He is somewhat prepared that even after asking for no questions regarding his previous coach, Afanas Snoke, there will be at least one reporter to break the leeway for the others to flood their questions through the break-in his composure. 

They look expectant: crows in wait behind vultures to pick his bones clean. Ben swallows, unbuttoning his blazer as he sits down in front of the microphones. 

"Good morning everyone. Bonjour." He nods to a reporter he recognizes from the French Open three weeks ago, giving her the floor for the first round of questions. 

"Bonjour Mr. Solo," she says, rounding out the vowels of his name. Her smile is soft and knowing; it makes his stomach twist. 

"Leaked footage of two top-ranking athletes appeared last night, is this love on the court?" 

Ben sighed even as the tips of his ears turn pink. He arrived expecting vivisection on live television, but he can talk about Rey Cissa all day. 

"You French have always been too romantic.” His usual tactics-- deflection and derision. A grin tugs at Ben’s lips when his stomach unknots at the murmur of quiet laughter. "I was merely putting Rey Cissa through her paces to see what the future of women's tennis will bring." 

"Rumor has it that you're retiring." Another one says, a tactless statement that makes his jaw clench. "Will you be taking Ms. Cissa under your wing?" 

He leans into his microphone, enunciating clearly, "Rey Cissa is an Olympic hopeful recruited by two countries, our match was merely good sportsmanship and fun between evenly matched athletes. She has a bright future." 

The rest of the time passes in a blur of questions, both routine and prying, and each answered with the cold self-assurance of a seasoned professional. 

Another conference is staged in the same room with a bubbly player eager and patiently waiting for each query of her playing style, goals, thoughts on her fellow opponents. Rey was reserved, holding back each answer, pausing to chew on her words. The memory is oddly endearing when he wasn't even there, only watching in his hotel room exhausted and shivering from his ice bath. 

The day passes with the smell of sunscreen and blatant racket abuse. Manic Monday ends with the top sixteen entering quarterfinals Wednesday. There is only the swing of his arm, the ache in his knees, the fleeting concern when Rey arrives at court with tape over her shoulder, her smile bright as she wins in the second set. 

"Shouldn't you be resting?" He leans against the open threshold of the hotel bar, spotting her streak across the May Fair Hotel lobby with her bag tight to her side. 

By the way her shoulders hike up and the rapid blush connecting the constellation of freckles over her cheekbones, he knows he has caught her sneaking out to an empty court. 

"You want company?" 

Ben smiles when she nods distantly, her throat moving as she swallows. His fingers find the lapel of his dinner jacket as he downs the rest of his Johnnie Walker. "I need to change first." 

"Sure, cool, that's fine." She mumbles, glancing past him to the fresh, blue light of the bar behind him. 

"Do you want a drink instead?" He asks.

"No, that's not—right now, I need a release," Rey says with the edge of desperation and nerves in her tone, written all over her features in the tightness around her hazel eyes. 

"I'll see what I can do," he mutters without looking at her, not able to look at her, not with those words in her mouth and that flush on her chest. Without the green of the court between them, Ben notes how she barely clears his shoulder. Taller than the average woman, nearly her entire back is covered by the span of his hand as he guides Rey to the elevators. 

Briefly, he wonders if the paparazzi have breached the safety of the building, his desire for privacy conflicting with the need that itches in his skin to keep touching her. Her hair is damp from an earlier shower, her threadbare shirt looking like something she would more likely wear to bed. Taking every measure to be rested and still, Rey is going to end up with the worn grass under her shoes and dark circles dimming the vibrant chartreuse of her irises. 

Being in a confined space with her for a few floors should be fine. _It’s fine,_ he tells himself. The elevator lifts and Ben feels too large; taking up too much room, he clasps his hand above his watch trying to fold in on himself. An attentiveness burns through him with gentle heat and he’s painfully aware when she shifts her weight and how the curve of her hip changes with the movement. 

A floor passes in silence. 

Then Rey turns to him and says, "Ben." 

_Shit._

"Thank you for what you said at your conference.” 

She drops her gaze for a moment, collecting her words as she steps closer. 

"Nobody has ever been there for me like that. It's just—thank you, Ben."

"I meant it, Rey." 

"That's the part I'm struggling with," she whispers as the elevator doors smoothly slide open with a ping, his exhale hidden by the noise. Ben looks up from the freckles under her ear to see burnished copper hair. Heat leaves his body at the half-contained sneer, and Ben moves to block the lines of Rey's body from Hux's dissecting gaze. 

There's a tense, wordless moment that Rey seems to know not to break as the two top men’s athletes pass each other in a wide berth. 

"Enjoy yourself, Solo," Hux says as he steps into the elevator. "Not sure how you're going to keep up with her." 

"If he can beat me tonight, then he's sending your spine to the moon at finals," Rey calls back as the doors close on whatever his responding snarl was going to be and now too muffled to understand. 

"Why do you think he'll make it to finals?" Ben asks, perturbed, and impressed in equal measure. 

"It's always you two in the end." She shrugs, aware that the Solo-Hux rivalry is running deep and scarring deeper. Four of the past five titles have gone to Ben, something he's quick to remind Armitage. The short walk to his room is loud with the introspection of his career and admonishing himself for not using this rare chance to talk to Rey. 

“I just need to find my practice shorts,” Ben finally mutters as he runs his keycard over the handle. He peels off his black dinner jacket, discarded over a chair before his hands reach over his shoulders to yank off the refined wool shirt. The expanse of his back shifted with corded muscle as his arms came down, the fabric tossed to the side. 

He catches a panicked, wide-eyed look before she drops her chin to look at her shoes against the plush carpet, ankles crossed to press her thighs together. It takes one glance up and the movement of her throat for him to step closer. 

“You’re inconsistent—” Rey said in one last attempt to keep that last bit of space between them, throwing up walls without looking at him while her fingers picked at the hem of her shirt— “and _flashy_ in your anger, so I don’t know if we should be doing this—"

“Is that why you came up here?” He asked in a low voice as he lumbered back to her. Wide eyes snap to him, flitting down his bare chest to his hands deftly unbuttoning his slacks then—

Ben walks past her, listening to the trembling breath in her throat, “to talk about my game?”

Two sets with Rey is more grueling than any match in the past three months. “I’m leaving you in the dust, Solo.” 

She’s rooted, small half steps back with her left foot to adjust for Ben’s more powerful serve. They’re well-matched, in unexpected ways; in skill, in the way, every action causes an equal or opposite reaction. Keeping up with her is exhausting and exhilarating, challenging where his career had plateaued into a stagnant series of matches. Their volleys are some of the longest he's ever played, the small huffs of noises she makes the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. When Rey wins and hides her sudden grin behind her hand he remembers his love for the sport. 

The next day in semi-finals she’s tired in the third set, impressive stamina lagging; her shoes drag against the court, moments of hesitation that lock her knees before she can move. Ben knows before news outlets can provide their commentary as he watches the tail end of her match with a towel over his shoulder and arms crossed over his chest. With his spot in the finals secure a new sort of anxiety curls and flexes with these hands, she might not advance despite her raw talent. Perhaps he pushed her too hard the night before, a thought not fair to either of them or the work they do. 

The chair umpire calls out match point and his stomach churns. Rey looks confused, too caught up in the gameplay to realize it was over. The moment that defeat hit her is covered with swift composure and a good-natured smile as she meets her opponent to shake over the net.

He texts her, pulling up her saved number from the night before. 

**you let your nerves push you too far, you have next year.**

The message is sent before he can realize his patronizing tone, expletive laces a sigh. When minutes pass and his chest is tight with the memory of his first major match, he loses his restraint of trying to wait for her reply and tries again. 

**and the year after that, you’ve already shaken the circuit.**

The space dividing them strange and taut, Ben can nearly feel the way she rolled her eyes as the **read 3:26 pm** receipt appeared under his text. He paces, pulling at his sweaty clothes as the space diving them grows taut. Ben can nearly feel the way she rolled her eyes as the read receipt finally appeared under his text. 

**come tell me in person**

There are only a few steps and fewer moments holding them apart, but he pauses. Conflicted with the need to be by her side and to make it less obvious that he followed her from the court. That restraint is broken when Holdo steps out and gives him an unsurprised smile, stepping around him without a word. He crosses the hall to the women’s locker room, knowing the interior to be a mirror of the men’s with wood-paneled storage and matching ottoman. He knocks, a soft beckoning muffled that tightens his lower abdomen.

There is a vulnerability in the slump of her shoulders and the awkward angle of her feet pointing together, something he’s never seen in her and wants to soothe. He kneels into her line of sight, steady fingers trailing up her calf to cup behind her knee, jolting her from whatever self-deprecating thoughts she was stuck in. Rey’s skin is sticky with exertion, hair mussed, and bent from her hair tie; he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

“I lost,” she whispers. “I’ve never been good enough, and now I have an empty trophy case to prove it.” 

“Rey,” He starts firmly and forces glassy eyes to find him. “This one thing won’t diminish you.” 

“I was alone,” Rey confesses quietly. It spurs an ache in his chest, heart cracking between his tight lungs when her voice hardens. “I was alone and it wouldn’t be any different if I had won, but I always thought if I keep winning then someone would try to find me. Now, I’ll never know.” 

Her history leaked and splashed across sports magazines to gain interest from their readers not garner sympathy for the London-born orphan. His jaw tenses, his other hand joining the first to thread his fingers through her hair as an anchor to keep himself calm and not spit the venom he wants to suck from her wounds.

“Anybody who wasn’t already looking doesn’t deserve to find you,” he tells her, locking the heat of his wild heartbeat in his chest. “Nobody in the stands could take their eyes off you.” 

“Were your eyes on me?”

“They never left you. I’ve never seen anyone move as beautifully as you, Rey.”

He angles his head and watches her try to absorb the plea on the shape of his mouth, the benediction of her name parting his lips. The angle of her head is subconscious as her eyes are focused on the middle space between them, tracing the line of his cheek and the soft curve of his mouth. It’s her, Rey, who plants her heels like he taught her last night against the floor of the locker room and leans into him. 

There is a tentativeness in the reserved way she eases into her pace he wants to chase and slide his tongue against, pulling her lower lip gently between his teeth to drag the small noise from her throat. Ben’s hand moves up her thigh, rumpling her skirt over her hip before gripping the curve of her waist. Fingertips pressed into her back drags her close as he moves his knees between her legs, her chin still tilted up for him. 

It’s when she moves against him that he thinks of how she works the court and battles for dominance and wonders who’s going to end up on top. For weeks he’s come into his hand with the question of if her long legs will be able to wrap around his middle, ankles crossed, and how her heels would feel digging into his lower back to push him deeper—the thought makes the line of his erection more defined before he’s pressed against the apex of her thighs. 

He’s riding the high of the stands applause around their courts for each point called out, and Rey’s loss hasn’t diminished her passion as she grinds into him, catching his groan between her teeth. Hands are tangled in each other’s hair, folding to the feeling of finally capturing one another. How dangerous it was for them not to have a net between them, to have the muscles of her shoulder blades shift under his palm as she adjusts her grip in his hair to run her fingers over his jaw to kiss him deeper. 

A rightness careens through him with how they adjust and attune, finding ways to draw moans from the velvet heat of her mouth with his tongue. When his hands aren’t on her, they shake a quiet tremble that mimics his breath as he leans her back. 

“Get me out of here,” she whispers against his lips. Her hand trails down his stomach, fingers lightly dipping into the waistband of his shorts.

“I’ll take you anywhere.” He hauls her up with his arms behind her knees and shoulders.

“Ben,” she says with a small smile, her arms wrapped around his neck and kisses him softly behind his ear. “You can’t carry me out of the locker room. Think of the headlines.”

He shrugs. “We’ll tell them you hurt your ankle.”

Rey smacks his chest. “Put me down, Solo.”

“I lost in my first Wimbledon too, you know.”

“Yeah?” she asks shyly, near hopeful, her emotion on her sleeve and her face. He wants to kiss her again. 

“You have the US Open, then we’ll do this all over again next year.” 

“We? You’re retiring,” she states with a frown.

“Do you think I won’t be in the stands for your matches, Cissa?” He grins broadly when he sets her on her feet, hands on her shoulders. 

He threads her hands in hers and leads them out of the locker room, into the crowd of reporters outside.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment, i need the serotonin
> 
> twitter: [@madsaialik](https://twitter.com/madsaialik)


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